Legacy - Fanmade Inheritance Book 5
by Brad Law
Summary: Set 70 years following Inheritance, a new order of Riders has emerged under the leadership of Eragon, and Alagaësia has remained a land at peace. But when news of a possible new threat reaches the Order, a young Rider is dispatched to assess the danger. He soon discovers that the old Empire's Legacy yet thrives, and threatens the very future of Alagaësia itself...
1. Prologue: The Witch and The Ruby

Prologue: The Witch and The Ruby

_Clang._

Lucien's arm jarred with the contact of steel on steel, his crimson eyes narrowed in focus beneath the fringe of his short black hair upon his opponent for this session, a girl named Visenya, her eyes, partially veiled behind her long golden hair, returned his intent stare with lavender intensity. Born beyond the natural scope of accepted possibility, Lucien's appearance was a firm concoction of strong and defined human power, corded and well-toned musculature combined with a steadiness owed to his upbringing in Palancar Valley.

Another clash of steel saw his footing shift to accommodate impact force, a grunt of exertion escaping him at the raw power behind Visenya's assaults. Her frame showed the truth of her strength, though despite the toned arms, slim even with the corded muscle beneath her flesh, the girl – or rather, the woman – maintained a level of feminine beauty that no amount of calloused palms and strong musculature could undermine.

The training grounds around them rang with similar strokes of blades meeting with echoing, clamorous strikes, the magically dulled edges still more than capable of breaking bones and leaving serious injuries, should a combatant become sloppy. As it stood, Lucien had already received several nasty bruises along his body, and he suspected one of his ribs had been fractured, along with a sprain in his right wrist.

Visenya, for her part, held only an ugly purple mark on her left forearm and a hidden bruise that caused a hitch in her step, beneath the tight-fitting black leather of her breeches. Above them, the sun was obscured by mild cloud-cover, as well as the occasional passing shadow of a flying dragon. Though he knew that in Alagaësia, dragons were few and far between even with the rebirth of the Riders, such was not the same here in Shur'tuglars Breoal, or as it was known to them: Illaria, Dras-abr'Evarínya – Illaria, City of Stars.

Side-stepping what promised to be a lethal downwards slash, Lucien flowed into a swift counter-strike, pushing off his left foot and pivoting into a horizontal slice towards Visenya's exposed right side, which she met with a pivot of her own and a lightning snap of her blade to his.

A faint smile quirked her lips for a moment, as if in recognition of his attack, before Lucien once again found himself attempting to fend off a vicious wave of responding attacks, sweat trickling into the corner of his narrowed eyes, forcing him to blink rapidly in order to remove the obstruction to his vision. A sharp spike of pain lanced up his left side beneath his crimson tunic, and he cursed when he realized she'd struck home, no doubt inflicting yet another large bruise on his ribs.

What was more; Visenya had scored her sixth point with the blow, and won the match. Lifting his blade in a weary salute, Lucien acknowledged her victory, something that his partner took a moment to soak in, before responding in kind. He didn't fault her for the momentary basking; he was a good swordsman, he was one of the best amongst the students, but she was better – and beating him allowed her to maintain that superiority each time.

Lowering his blade, Lucien unbuckled his sword belt, wincing at the mixture of pain and relief the action caused. "I think you outdid yourself this time," he said with a sigh, "I'm going to be limping for the rest of the day."

"Only because you're terrible at anticipating an opponent," she replied primly, her voice a subtle mixture between a purr and accents of noble birth.

"I am plenty skilled at anticipation, just not at anticipating _you_." Where Visenya was elegant in her speech, Lucien was somewhat more masculine, having been raised as the son of a blacksmith. "Besides which, you cheated earlier."

Raising an eyebrow, Visenya turned to him, beautiful features haughty, "and how did you come to that solution, pray tell?"

Lucien grinned at her, despite the pain he was in, and spoke with a faint twinkle of amusement in his vermillion stare. "You smiled at me before the third hit."

Visenya opened her mouth, ready to retort, then snapped it shut with a _click_. Soon after, a flush suffused her cheeks and she sheathed her blade in her best noblewoman manner, nose in the air and jaw locked stubbornly. Despite her physical prowess, she had been born into a wealthy family in the heart of Ilirea, and her ingrained mannerisms were a hard thing to shed.

To Lucien, it was simply another reason for him to smile. Settling into a companionable silence, they left the training grounds, bowing to one of the elven sword masters observing the training, who acknowledged them with a critical glance and nod. Not all the teachers in Illaria were Riders, indeed the vast majority of them were simply volunteers from the Elves who had opted to help in the training of the new generation, as opposed to sit restlessly in Ellesméra, cut out from a new age of Alagaësia's history.

Walking together, they mounted the stairs on the far northern edge of the circular training field, ascending to the outer-ring of the twin-circle field, where the relatively small populace of Illaria would gather for the monthly tests of skill and prowess by each barracks. The tournaments, designed to foster a spirit of competition to excel within Riders, were in and of themselves encouragement enough even without being currently underway. Only the best from the three barracks, those students who passed their various tests and trials most astutely, were given the chance to win glory in the Shur'tugal Games.

Past magically sung trees and setting forth onto a magically laid path of limestone and marble, Lucien glanced once again at the greenery that surrounded them, blended so beautifully into the various buildings and sub-sectors of Illaria scattered across the city. Beside him, Visenya stirred from her silence, and he turned to heed her words.

"Let's not return just yet," she said with a hint of restlessness, "I want to visit the markets."

"You know that we aren't meant to deviate from our routine," Lucien responded with a raised eyebrow, surprised at her sudden departure from protocol.

"I know," she replied tersely, "but I have good reason for the visit, and besides, Sariphus-elda won't be overly cross – we _did_ finish our session early."

A slight shake of his head displayed the mixed amusement and exasperation flooding Lucien's mind, but he acquiesced to his companion's request. Her logic was not without merit, but more than that, he too had been itching to visit the marketplace since he woke – with the money he'd saved from his allowance, he had a very good notion as to what he wanted to buy.

Veering from the gleaming walkway by unspoken consent, the pair stepped off to their right onto the soft green that extended from the tree-lined pathway, off towards the east, where the myriad shapes of the marketplace buildings held precedence over the sector. Though initially built as a single, large hall, Illaria had expanded in the decades since its founding into a moderately large city in and of itself. Elves, Dwarves, Humans, Urgals and even the occasional Werecat were known to populate its streets, drawn to the safety offered by the Riders.

More than that, however, they were inexplicably drawn to the man who made it all possible in the very earliest days. At times, Lucien found it daunting to even remember who it was that ruled the city, not out of fear, but because of the nervous awe that suffused every inch of his body when he allowed his mind to reflect long enough.

Eragon Shadeslayer, the saviour of Alagaësia. Both out of force of habit, and inexplicable need, Lucien's head turned towards the fortress that the city had been named for, Shur'tugalrs Breoal, built with magic as with everything in Illaria; the fortress was even still beyond normal reckoning. Dominating the skyline of Illaria at its highest point, the myriad turrets and inter-connecting walkways between the towers above the fortress walls lent an almost mythical quality to its existence, the dragon roosts and towering trees within and around it creating a beautiful reincarnation of natural formation.

High walls, unmarred by fixed weapon emplacements or unneeded barricades, surrounded the structures spaced neatly around the central building within, Shadeslayer Hall. Large enough for fifteen dragons to fit comfortably on each floor, and expanded over the years to include several levels and quarters for honoured guests; it was also the home of the Elder Council, the convocation of riders that served as the leadership of the Order.

Despite the option of the majestic spires that dotted the fortress, rising like glittering blade hilts from the walls and interior of the stronghold, Eragon himself had chosen to remain within Shadeslayer Hall, living in its highest level, undertaking the tasks required of the Riders' Grand Master. It was an occasion of great excitement and pride for the residents of Illaria, when they would see the massive, glittering form of Saphira soaring over the City of Stars, her blue scales reflecting sunlight like a thousand shining jewels.

At times, Eragon himself would take clusters of students for lessons, or give lectures and seminars on the duties and challenges of being a rider, but such instances were less common now than they had been thirty years prior. Not for lack of desire, but due to the large population the Riders now possessed. Numbering just over one hundred, it was impossible for Eragon to teach every student, to give lessons to each individual, unless he spoke to four of them a day – impossible, given his workload. Still, it was a tribute to his dedication that the Grand Master took time to host regular seminars, where any number of people – riders and citizens – could attend and hear his words.

"You're day-dreaming again," Visenya said abruptly, snapping Lucien out of his wandering thoughts. "Things like that are what make you terrible at swordplay."

"I am _not_ terrible at swordpl-!" He cut himself off abruptly, realizing she had baited him. A long-suffering sigh was his response instead, and Visenya smiled victoriously, a slight skip entering her step. Smug as a cat with cream, she moved languidly across the green, blonde hair stirring in the air behind her.

Ahead of them, the sounds of trade and commerce filled the morning air, merchants hawking their wares with elaborate flourishes and mystifying description. Despite living in a city whose entire purpose was the training of Riders – the world's most powerful magicians – and knowing their lack of credence to superstition, the inhabitants of the sprawling marketplace never failed to add fanciful and impossible elaborations of mystery to even the most basic of items.

The most striking thing, of course, was the sheer diversity of the perusing customers and traders themselves. Every race in Alagaësia was represented in Illaria, despite its distance from their various homelands – trade lanes had been opened for those adventurous enough to pursue them and, for those who found themselves smitten with Illaria, opportunities for permanent settlement were many and easily accessible.

Moving casually through the marketplace, Lucien and Visenya smiled and nodded to the merchants who recognised the garb of riders, and the blades at their sides. In Illaria, only Riders and the staff that assisted them were permitted the use of weaponry. Any who wished to retain their arms were forced to submit them for a magical binding, which disabled their ability to draw or use their weaponry within the city or its outskirts.

Nearby, two dwarves were arguing heatedly about the best way to forge a war hammer, gesturing angrily and shaking their fists at each other, beards quivering with rage. Visenya and Lucien struggled to suppress laughter at the display, and with the two dwarves nearly leaping in rage, it was quite the task.

The most intriguing attraction out of all the storefronts and less permanent stalls in the marketplace, however, was one run by a human woman, her hair greyed and her clothing of a fine cut. Wrinkles were prominent in her features, but the memory of beauty had not been forgotten; even with age, she presented a face to remember, equipped with two eyes that seemed to flash with sharp intelligence.

"I'm going to have a look at that one," he said out loud, glancing at Visenya.

"Alright," she replied after a moment, eyeing the woman and her stall. "I'll meet you at the barracks path in twenty minutes."

Lucien nodded his agreement, and she was gone, gliding away through the crowd, seemingly oblivious to it parting before her. Suppressing a smile at the sight, and eager to investigate the older woman's wares, Lucien made his way to her storefront, eyes raking the merchandise on the walls behind her. Various different items, ranging from good luck charms; to heater shields; riding crops and even some jewelled pendants.

It was the last that drew Lucien's eyes, his gaze roaming over the jewellery with a spark of desire. He had been saving for weeks to afford a suitable purchase, something that could serve as a means to grant him a much-needed boost in a desperate situation.

"You have an eye for gems, Rider." The woman said to him after a moment, her lips parted into a knowing smile.

"I've learned that gems have many useful traits, madam."

"An accurate statement and one I'd expect from a Rider. Aye, these beauties can serve many a purpose, when embraced correctly."

A flicker of confusion crossed Lucien's features, "what defines a correct embrace?"

Musical laughter preceded her answer, "love, Rider. Love what you hold, and it will be embraced in truth."

"Wise words, madam," Lucien said with a smile. "Do you offer advice to every customer?"

"Only to the ones who require it," she replied with another tinkling laugh.

Sweeping his eyes over the assorted pendants, Lucien settled his gaze on a large, diamond-cut ruby, his mind made up the moment he noted its presence. Wordlessly, he pointed to it and the shopkeeper smiled, as if she had known what his choice would be long before he made it. Bringing out the pendant, the woman placed it on the counter of her store, her eyes never leaving Lucien's.

"Twenty crowns and it's yours, Rider."

Lucien's throat constricted at the price, but even as he considered the steep nature of the expenditure, he could not break his gaze from the stone. As if calling to him, beckoning, it drew him in. He could not say no, for so long as it was within his capacity to purchase. Twenty crowns was nearly everything he possessed, but in his heart, he knew it was well worth the price.

"Twenty crowns," he said with a nod, pulling out his coin purse and placing it onto the counter. The woman didn't even bother to count, simply taking the purse and sliding him the amulet. "Do you wish to keep it on its chain?"

Lucien opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, she lifted a hand. "Wait; allow me to forestall you, Rider. I've a better notion." Turning, she bustled around for a moment, before producing a chain of obsidian links, culminating in an empty socket point shaped like the claws of a dragon. Taking the ruby, the woman removed it from its mounting and slipped it into the claw socket, a perfect fit.

"How much is the chain?" Lucien asked warily.

"Free of charge. Fashion has no price, Rider." Her smile was prominent again, her eyes holding a startling amount of insight. "Guard this stone well, young man. You will regret losing it, I think."

Nodding his agreement, Lucien slipped the amulet around his neck, tucking the chain and jewel beneath the fabric of his red tunic, resting it against the bare flesh of his chest. "Thank you, madam, for your generosity." His words were accompanied by a smile, and a wave of farewell. Turning away, Lucien stepped back into the milling throng of the Illarian marketplace and set forth at a casual pace, intending to pass time until his arranged meeting with Visenya.

Meanwhile, behind him, the grey-haired woman watched his departure with rapt attention, leaning on the counter of the storefront. As Lucien melted into the crowd, her silver hair changed seemingly without external motivation, turning thicker, darker and healthier until it was a deep shade of brown. Her height shifted only slightly, until she held a smaller stature and her lips curved into an amused smile.

From a curtain at the back of the store, a large cat with shaggy black fur and a pair of lavender eyes swayed out, leaping its large body onto the storefront counter and curling up lazily. Looking to it, the woman smiled conspiratorially, stroking it behind the ears. "Things are becoming interesting again, it seems. Don't you agree, Solembum?"

By way of response, the cat purred, shuffling slightly to adjust for comfort.

"Yes," Angela murmured to the Werecat, or perhaps herself, "Interesting indeed."


	2. Chapter 1: The Elder Council

Chapter One: The Elder Council

Lucien found Visenya waiting for him at the edge of the marketplace's western exit, under the archway entrance to the colonnaded path leading to the Riders' barracks. While they were no longer simply apprentices, neither were they classed as Masters. Instead, he and Visenya were considered the most junior of the Order – still taking lessons from senior members, and treated as something more than students, yet less than Riders in truth.

"You took your time," she said with a raised eyebrow, scanning him up and down, "any reason for your tardiness?"

By way of reply, Lucien simply pointed to the sky, and the relative position of the sun overheard. Following his finger, Visenya took a moment to note the time per the burning orb's location, and then pursed her lips. Wisely, Lucien chose not to say anything to antagonize her, and his companion lapsed instead into a dour mood, the ghost of a pout present on her full lips.

Walking together along the polished pathway towards their barracks, the pair exchanged no words, instead allowing the silence to stretch on. Yet even with the peaceful quiet, there was a sense of rising anticipation in both of them, a mutual understanding of imminent joy. Pace increasing mutually, Visenya and Lucien approached the tiered barracks building with haste, spying the waiting form of Sariphus quickly.

One of the oldest riders currently alive, following Eragon himself, Sariphus was an Elf of Sílthrim, the city second only to Ellesméra in elven splendour. He wore a flowing white and blue robe, with a high-backed collar and a sheathed Rider blade at his hip. His eyes, discerning silver, matched his flowing hair in colour. Those eyes, so capable of piercing even the most steadfast of innocent veneers, drilled into Visenya and Lucien with their usual exasperated amusement.

While considered old even amongst Elves, Sariphus held himself with a kind of wise humility that lent him favour amongst the students. Despite his strict nature, there was a level of empathy between most of the younger Riders and Sariphus that precluded any sort of resentment or hostility. Even when being punished, they could not hold ire towards the elf's noble aspect.

"Lucien. Visenya." Sariphus' deep baritone washed over them, and the pair twisted their wrists in the traditional sign of respect amongst Elves, bowing.

"Atra esterní ono thelduin, Sariphus-elda." The pair said in unision.

"Mor'ranr lífa unin hjarta onr," the older rider replied with a faint smile, looking at his charges analytically. "I trust your training went well?"

"Yes, Sariphus-elda," replied Visenya respectfully, "we learned much in the dance of blades."

Lucien nodded his agreement, though remained silent on his feelings about Visenya's tactics. Smiling should have been banned. It was unfair what the woman could do with a flash of her teeth.

"That is heartening to hear, Visenya. Tell me, are you tired?"

"I cannot speak for Lucien, Ebrithil, but I have energy enough for another session."

Lucien parted his lips to respond, but Sariphus cut him off, his smile shifting to one of amusement, "no doubt, considering your joint foray into the marketplace. If I recall correctly, you were instructed to report back the _moment_ you finished your training, not spend the time remaining perusing the local bazaar."

As one, the pair's eyes widened, before staring fixedly at the polished marble beneath their feet, avoiding the Elder's gaze. Lucien was the first to speak, cheeks flushed slightly from embarrassment, "our apologies, Ebrithil. We made the choice out of no desire to disrespect your commands."

Visenya nodded, right on top of Lucien's conclusion, "we only wished to see what wares were held there, Ebrithil, nothing more."

"Look at me, both of you."

The pair raised their eyes, peering at Sariphus worriedly.

"You are not going to be disciplined nor reprimanded," he said with the same permanent, amused smile, "but neither will you take such liberties with your orders again. You will report back the moment you conclude your training, and if it is concluded early, then you will approach the sword master on duty and request intercession."

At their surprised looks, he laughed quietly, sending nearby birds into a singing frenzy. Such was the effect of one of the more ancient memebrs of the fair race. "Did you believe that a quick end to training was a good thing? No, if you are being bested so astutely, Lucien, then you must endeavour to fix whatever issue it is that counters your ability to match Visenya."

Bowing their heads, they murmured their assent, waiting until Sariphus gave them his acceptance before meeting his eyes once more. "Have your dragons returned?"

"No, Ebrithil," replied Lucien, "they are not due to return within sensory range for another ten minutes. I believe they are learning high altitude manoeuvres today."

Nodding, Visenya added nothing in the way of words, but her agreement was visible enough.

"Very well, you should make your way to the platforms of your individual barracks and await them." Sariphus turned away then, pausing a moment in his departure, "and do not forget to share thoughts. You will need all your wits about you on the morrow."

At their confused looks, the Elder simply smiled, "all in due course. Farewell."

Bowing once again as the silver-haired Elf departed, Visenya and Lucien exchanged quick glances before hurrying forwards towards the main entrance to the Rider barracks, nodding to their peers as they passed them. The barracks themselves were divided into three different blocks, each connected by multiple, arching bridges. The 'B' block was the central one, with the 'A' and 'C' blocks bridging off to the left and right. The main foyer of the B block held a central staircase, then multiple smaller ones branching off into the various sub-blocks within the main hub. Both Lucien and Visenya were housed in the 'A' block, though it was segregated by gender.

The trip itself took them little more than five minutes, the pair splitting up as they reached the 'A' block. Visenya turned onto a small flight of stairs as they entered on the third floor, while Lucien proceeded down the large, balconied hallway to his room, at the very end, opposite the bridge.

The door to his quarters was made of enchanted and sung wood, and the inside was sparsely decorated, a perpetuation of the belief that Riders had no need for worldly possessions. A small set of shelves for his clothing, a wash area for him to maintain, with his razor and the needed ingredients for shaving paste. Salt and a brush to scrub his teeth, and some mint to freshen his breath when needed.

His bed was a magically produced, soft pallet that fit his form perfectly. The room itself was massive in scale, easily the size of several small house rooms – each of the Riders' individual quarters was just as large. The barracks themselves were massive, and each room had the same feature attached; a large circular landing platform for the Rider's dragon to land on, sleep on and take their ease on. Because of the nature of their training, it was rare that Rider and Dragon had time to relax in their quarters, though when possible, the opportunity was relished.

Wasting no time, Lucien busied himself with tending to his injuries, removing his tunic and placing it neatly on the bed, followed by his linen undershirt. His breeches he removed also, as well as his smallclothes, placing the last into a separate pile for washing. Stepping into a small alcove joined to his quarters, he pulled aside a small leafy curtain to reveal a steaming, circular bathing area. Built into the floor, it was deep enough to allow him to stand in the water up to his waist, even with his considerable height.

Sinking into the heated liquid, he pulled out a bar of cleansing soap from beside the bath and scrubbed himself vigorously, rubbing a herb and fruit paste into his hair to clean it. The ruby amulet he kept on, loath to part with it even for a moment. Once he had concluded cleaning himself, he allowed himself to enjoy the warmth of the water and began lightly running his right hand over his various wounds, murmuring healing spells in the ancient language to alleviate the pain.

Once he was cleaned, refreshed and healed, Lucien stepped out of the bath and towelled himself off, stepping back into his quarters to change into fresh clothes. Another white linen undershirt, clean smallclothes and a pair of red-trimmed black breeches came on quickly, followed by a black tunic with crimson on the cuffs and collar, and a pair of polished black riding boots.

When he reached for his sword, he felt a sudden rush of awareness flood his mind, and froze momentarily. Then, with a wide grin, he quickly buckled on the blade and belt and rushed outside to the external landing pad. Shielding his eyes with his hand, he peered out towards the east, where his room faced. In the distance, he could make out, barely, three dark specks. But in his mind, something far more telling had occurred.

_Lucien!_ Boomed a deep, musical voice in his mind, filled with warmth and love; overflowing with both relief and a burning desire for proximity, for physical and spiritual embrace. His Dragon – his soul-bonded partner and eternal companion in all things.

_Vraelgar!_ The name echoed through his mind like thunder, heralding the imminent arrival of the dragon to which it belonged. Racing on the air like a gargantuan arrow, the massive body of his soul-bound partner dived from the clouds, separating from the other two indistinct draconic forms with magical urgency. Scales like polished onyx reflected sunlight like precious jewels, fading to a slate grey colour on his soft belly.

A pair of burning red eyes, alight with the power of their draconic heritage, heralded the obsidian-scaled dragon's exuberance at the reunion. Arms raised as if to embrace the massive creature, Lucien laughed in wonder, watching with rapturous glee as Vraelgar corkscrewed downwards and flared his massive, shimmering black wings at the last moment. The resultant blast of air sent Lucien staggering back several steps, but he never allowed a moment of displeasure to mar the reunion, racing forwards almost immediately to wrap his arms around the head of his partner.

_Welcome back, my friend._ He sent to Vraelgar warmly, closing his eyes and enjoying the warmth of the Dragon's skull. At four years old, Vraelgar was still a massive specimen. As with most of his kind, he grew with exponential swiftness in his early years, and currently was large enough that bearing Lucien on his back was barely noticeable as added weight. Obsidian wings folding down to his sides, the magnificent creature thudded across the pad, lifting Lucien off his feet by merit of the arms still wrapped around Vraelgar's rising head.

Laughing warmly, a mixture of human mirth and a dragon's rumbling, dragon and rider came to a rest within the latter's quarters. Too big to fit more than his head and part of his front legs inside the living space, Vraelgar rested his head on a cleared section of floor as Lucien released the dragon's head, stepping around and settling down onto his rear, leaning against Vraelgar's neck.

_How was flying practice?_

_Much the same as always, though I finally managed to perfect my hunting dive._

Lucien grinned to himself; _So Molterion didn't call you impulsive and reckless again?_

Vraelgar snorted, black smoke wafting through the room, before he replied with the hint of a grumble, _Molterion sees any dragon who acts with passion as impulsive and reckless._

Exhaling in a sense of peace, Lucien didn't comment further, but instead dropped the last of his mental barriers and fully immersed himself into Vraelgar's consciousness, feeling the dragon doing the same within a heartbeat. Together, they exclaimed over each other's lessons, comforted each other over failures and did their best to memorize and compact the knowledge gleaned from one another's thoughts.

_Sariphus mentioned a need for us to know one another's memories intimately for tomorrow,_ Vraelgar projected with a hint of curiosity; _I wonder why he was so insistent._

_ Perhaps it's another trial on the path to Mastery?_

_It could be, but Molterion also informed me to meld with you as never before, and that is not a common thing. Our masters are never so obvious in their desires for us._

Lucien frowned thoughtfully at that, considering the implications. Every time he had been given a test, it was always a surprise, some sort of unexpected event, used to catch he and Vraelgar off guard and test their abilities, knowledge and bond when they were least expecting it. Why, then, had Sariphus and his crimson Dragon seen fit to warn them, to prepare them?

_It's drawing close to noon, Vraelgar. I have no more duties for today. Shall we spend the rest of our day in meditation for tomorrow?_

_ Yes, my wings ache and my chest hurts from my exertions today. We will spend the next few hours in thought, and perhaps later I will steal out to one of the outskirts farms for a snack…_

Lucien laughed, knowing full well what the black dragon had in mind. He had been on his back more than once when Vraelgar had gotten it into his head to snatch up an unwitting cow, much to the horror of the watching farmer. Very few, if any, of those who had settled in or around Illaria were legitimately afraid of the dragons – they saw them as protectors, as much as the elves, men, dwarves and occasional Urgal that rode them. Of the latter two, only twelve existed; eight dwarves and four Urgals, but they were afforded the respect of riders regardless of prior racial reservations.

Settling into a regulated breathing pattern, Lucien allowed himself to meld with Vraelgar completely, absorbing everything the dragon had to offer. Similarly, the great wyrm closed his eyes, and a heavy breath heralded his sinking into meditation. Together, the pair settled into a steady stream of information sharing, rapidly passing images, sensations, feelings and knowledge to one another without pause.

Hours passed in this manner, Lucien and Vraelgar locked away from external intrusion and passing time without even noticing its progress. The pair had fallen into a deep trance by the third hour, and when the sun dropped below the horizon, Illaria took on its true beauty. Moonlight cascaded over the towering spires of the Shur'tugalrs Breoal, illuminating the crystalline shine on the magically crafted, fluted towers of the sprawling fortress. The smoothed, sinuous marble and limestone roadways and colonnaded pathways of the city were enriched with a starlit radiance, light reflecting off of the interspersed magically sung lakes and radiant watchtowers scattered throughout the city.

Entire sections of the Illarian interior, thanks to the polished marble dominating the city, blazed with reflected ethereal light, basking the city in an aetheric glow that gave it a mythical quality. The glittering, shimmering scales of dozens of Dragons only added to the great state's majesty. It was, by the reckoning of any who experienced even a single night in the home of the Riders, the single most stunning vista in the world. There was no description that could fully capture the perfect blend of natural magic and artificial artistry that was Illaria.

Elven, Human, Dwarven and Urgal craftsmanship had come together in a symbiotic camaraderie that was unlike anything else in the inhabited globe. The night passed in peace, the laughter of revellers and sighs of lovers entwined into a nourishing lullaby that transcribed the newfound immortality. Like Vroengard before it, Illaria had become a staple of the Order's power. None could gaze upon the city of stars, and fail to be awed, humbled and inspired by its perfection.

Hours passed in peace, and on the rising of the sun, Lucien opened his eyes, blinking himself to alertness. A faint sense of confusion assailed him, before he realized he had slipped from meditation into sleep, and passed the night in that manner. Pushing himself up from his position against Vraelgar's head, he walked to the washbasin across the large expanse of his room and murmured a few words in the ancient language to open the faucet. Thanks to a recent discovery, called 'plumbing', magic had made it possible to transport liquid and waste through the sewers and piping under the city.

Taking out his bristled brush and mixing it into mix of crushed mint and salt, Lucien set to scrubbing his teeth vigorously, peering at them in the mirror after he finished and murmuring another quick spell to remove any plaque he had missed. When satisfied, he ran a hand over his stubble and, unable to bother with shaving, uttered a quick spell to rid his jaw of the faint dark growth.

When he was finally finished with his morning ablutions, which also included relieving himself, he checked he was still presentable, smoothed out one or two wrinkles in his tunic, then made his way over to Vraelgar. Placing a hand on the Dragon's head, above his right eye, Lucien smiled at the hum of anticipation that rumbled in Vraelgar's throat, shaking the room faintly.

_Shall we fly then, Vraelgar?_

_Yes, Lucien. We shall fly._

With practised expertise, he fixed into place the saddle he had made himself several months prior, during his trials for ascension as a junior Rider. When the final strap was pulled taut, and the saddle settled into the space between Vraelgar's spikes, Lucien accompanied the massive onyx wyrm onto his landing pad.

_I still want one of those cows._

Lucien only laughed, and climbed up into saddle by way of the dragon's left foreleg, slipping his legs into the slots made for them and tightening the buckles. He wriggled them some to check they were secure, before nodding to himself in satisfaction. Yawning long and loudly, Vraelgar turned and spread his wings, stretching out fully with a rumbling growl of pleasure.

_Let's ride._

Roaring his agreement, the black dragon launched himself off the pad, wings snapping down with a jarring _thud_ of power, pushing them both upwards into the air. Lucien inhaled with a laugh of exultation, gripping the black spike in front of him to brace against the next flap, and the one after that, only releasing when they were high above the City of Stars, coasting through the air in long-ago learned patrol paths. Dozens of other dragons of varying sizes and ages, some with riders and some without, dominated the skies in all directions – many of them wild dragons, leaving Illaria after visiting their bonded kin, or approaching to seek the counsel of one of the Elder Dragons in the Riders' fortress.

Slowly circling to the sky, Vraelgar rose at an angle, maintaining a constant tilt towards the right, allowing Lucien to enjoy the view of the city and far-reaching mix of grasslands and desert beyond.

_They say Vroengard rivalled Illaria for splendour, but I can scarcely believe it to be true._

_I have seen pictures of this Vroengard in the minds of the older Dragons, though where they gleaned the knowledge, I cannot say._

_Perhaps Eragon-elda showed them an image he received from his own teachers._

Vraelgar seemed surprised he had not come to that conclusion himself, and a little miffed, snorting out a cloud of black smog in his agitation at his own failure of logic. Patting the dragon's hard scales soothingly, Lucien continued.

_Besides, Vroengard was an island; Illaria is its own nation. Its own country!_

_And it is the greatest on the earth._ Concluded Vraelgar, pleased to share Lucien's thoughts. For a time they drifted like that, silent and comfortable in each other's company, soaking in the image of their home below. Every now and then a wild dragon or one bearing a rider would wing its way past with a roar of greeting, which Vraelgar would answer with his own. Because of the relatively short life every living Dragon had lived thus far, and the comparatively small population of them, most Dragons knew one another by name and appearance.

Of black Dragons specifically, there were few. Perhaps four, including Vraelgar, and only he was a Rider's dragon. It was a thing both Lucien and Vraelgar took great pride in, irrelevant of the snide remarks some other junior Riders made, comparing them to Shruikan and the Lord of the Wyrdfell. Galbatorix was long dead, and Shruikan a victim of his evil. Whenever the subject was raised, Vraelgar grew sombre, and Lucien sensed a great and burning determination within him to purify the name of black dragons.

After an hour had passed, and Lucien had lapsed into a companionable game of riddles with Vraelgar, a familiar mind attempted to enter both of theirs and, after a moment of reinforcing his mental wards reflexively, Lucien relaxed to allow the other person in.

_Lucien-finiarel, Vraelgar-finiarel._

_Ebrithil. _ They greeted as one, recognising Sariphus' thoughts immediately. Molterion's own thunderous processes accompanied, but the red dragon remained silent, content to speak only if needed.

_It is time for you to report your understandings of one another._

_As you wish, ebrithil. Shall we meet you at the training field?_

_No_, interjected Molterion's rumbling, sonorous thoughts, _you will attend us at Shadeslayer Hall._

Surprise rippled through the bond from Vraelgar, and Lucien reflected it, feeling the emotion bounce off of each of them and magnify. As if sensing it, Sariphus spoke to them again.

_It is time for you to take the next step in our Order. Make haste._

Waiting only long enough to observe the proper protocol for bidding farewell to an Elder Rider, Lucien withdrew from Sariphus and exclaimed his shock wordlessly to Vraelgar, who responded quickly.

_Are we to meet the entire Council?_

_I don't know._ Lucien replied with furrowed brows, _but if that is the case, we cannot keep them waiting. Let us make haste, but do not do anything to tire yourself out. We may yet need to fly a great distance for this new task._

Vraelgar conceded with a snort of smoke, _you are right; I will fly conservatively, for as much of a time as I can._

Shifting his trajectory and folding his wings inwards slightly, Vraelgar set himself into a downwards path, careful to avoid conflicting with the flight patterns of other dragons, and using columns of hot air to manage and control his descent. Within some four minutes, they came within range of the Shadeslayer Hall within the walls of the Great Fortress, and Vraelgar had a moment of indecision, before opting to land on the gargantuan pad built to take even Saphira's tremendous bulk. Descending in a controlled glide, he alighted on the platform as elegantly as possible, unable to avoid a few short steps to disperse his forwards momentum.

Unbuckling his legs, Lucien slipped from the saddle quickly, using Vraelgar's right foreleg as a platform from which to jump to the magically reinforced wooden pad beneath them. Before them lay a cavernous entrance, a gargantuan hole more akin to a large cave than any form of true doorway, framed by inscribed golden texts and magical wards that protected it from eavesdropping and unwanted eyes. Within the entrance, seated on high-backed chairs with names carved into the tops of their spines, the Elder Council of the Riders was in full attendance. Twelve Elder Riders, seated in a straight line at a table that gave them a view to the entrance to their chambers.

In the exact middle, between both lots of six, sat Eragon himself.

Before them lay a depression in the room, a three-tiered circular section of lowered flooring, which was large enough for Lucien and Vraelgar to occupy three times over. In normal circumstance, the council would meet standing up, speaking without the need for ceremony, but this was not a simple gathering. Mastering his intimidation and awe, Lucien strode forwards determinedly, descending the three steps into the audience bowl and falling to one knee.

He felt Vraelgar follow and imitate with the Dragon version, dipping his snout in submission. Behind the council, thirteen dragons lay watching the proceedings, grouped in rough formation relative to where their riders sat, but Lucien and Vraelgar had eyes for only one. The largest by a noticeable margin, her blue scales glittering with otherworldly brightness; Saphira observed them with a single blue eye the size of a dinner plate, her massive body coiled in a dominant manner. There was no doubt that she was the leader of the newly reborn Dragon race, in as much capacity as a leader could exist.

"Rise, Lucien Williamsson."

Suppressing a shiver at the power inherent to the voice addressing him, Lucien stood, Vraelgar settling onto his belly beside him and lifting his head respectfully to listen. The dragons behind the council shifted slightly, but did not seem displeased. It was only right and proper that Vraelgar hold himself with some pride. He _was_ a dragon.

"Do you know why you have been called before the council, Rider?"

Looking to the speaker, a bearded Human with piercing blue eyes and flaxen blonde hair, Lucien shook his head. "No, Theldran-elda, Vaelgar and I were only instructed to come here by our master, Sariphus-elda, this morning."

Nodding as if it was what he expected, Theldran bridged his fingers, observing Lucien and Vraelgar analytically. Beside him to the left, Tharkra Redhorns, one of two Urgals on the Elder council, made a _ruk-ruk_ sound in his throat. "They are as nervous as young rams before their first tournament."

A grunt of agreement followed from the dwarven elder two seats down further to the left, the end of that side of the table. "Aye, and they're about as ready for this as they'll ever be. Let's be on with it, I say."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the Elders, some merely offering nods, others vocally supporting the measure. Many merely remained in observation. The council as a whole consisted of Twelve Elder Riders, and the Grand Master, Eragon. Four Elves, four humans, two Urgals and two Dwarves. The order in which they sat meant nothing, and changed often. The only person of fixed position was Eragon himself, who was ever seated in the middle of each set of six. While the Council had great authority, Eragon held the power to overrule even a full majority. Such was his legend.

"Are we sure about that, though, Uthrun?" Asked one of the other Elven elders, a black-haired, stormy green eyed woman named Serenia. "If we judge them ready prematurely, we could doom them, and I would not lose such promising candidates to an oversight."

"I doubt Sariphus-vodhr would recommend them if they weren't ready, Serenia." Replied an ebon-skinned Human Elder, "I, for one, have complete faith in his judgement."

"Be that as it may, Sajith." This time, the second of the Dwarves spoke, "Serenia _does_ have a good point. Lucien-finiarel and Vraelgar-finiarel are very, very promising young students. I, too, would be loath to lose them based on an ill-advised decision. They need more training."

"Are they not Riders, Hythvigg?" This time the tone was demanding, a mix of a growl and speech, coming from the second Urgal Elder, Javruk. "Personally, I say let them test themselves in this task. If they are not up to the challenge, then perhaps they were never meant to be riders in the first place!"

"If we allowed _that_ logic to rule us" spoke an amused Elven lilt, "I fear the Order would perish within the first two centuries of its existence. I am in favour of further deliberation."

"As I am the one who suggested them," Sariphus cut in from his position beside Eragon, looking to the former speaker, a black-eyed male elf with bright green hair, "I support their capability. Lucien and Vraelgar are two of the best students I've had the pleasure of training. They will not fail the Order."

"Is it true you grew up in Palancar Valley, boy?" This question from the lone female Human on the council, a stunning red-haired woman named Brunhildr.

Lucien, who had been listening and observing in respectful silence, started at being addressed, but answered quickly. "Yes, Brunhildr-elda. My father was William Baldorsson."

"You see? A son of Palancar. I have no further doubts; he is too valuable to lose. We must choose another." Brunhildr's voice was cutting, challenging, as if daring someone to disagree with her.

Then, suddenly, as more Elders began to frown and argue, a low rumbling growl stilled the chamber – its origin the legendary Dragon herself, her thoughts pervading the minds of all present. _You squabble like hatchlings over pieces of lamb. This is not a meeting to decide their worth, but to test their readiness with proper procedure. Master yourselves._ To Lucien and Vraelgar, her words were more pointed; _do you believe you are ready, younglings?_

They answered as one, without hesitation, _That is for our Elders to judge, Ebrithil. Our worth is measured by those who have the knowledge to measure it._

Another rumble filled the chamber, and this time it was unmistakably the laughter of the thirteen dragons. _A fine answer._

"Yes," said Eragon at last, his voice washing over the council like a wave, powerful, assured, controlled. "An answer worth, I daresay, of a rider in truth." Looking to his right, he raised a slanted brow at Sariphus, "you truly believe them ready for this, Sariphus-vodhr?"

Bowing his head, the Elder nodded, "yes, Ebrithil."

It was a sign of the immensity of Eragon's power that an elf nigh thrice his age used such an honorific, something Lucien and Vaelgar were all too aware of. Swallowing their nervousness as Eragon turned back to them, they waited with baited breath for his words.

"You were brought here today to be tested and judged in your worth for the next leg of your journey as riders. However, I am not inclined to embarrass Sariphus by doubting his words. He believes you are ready, and for that reason, I believe you are ready."

Clasping his hands before him, Eragon blinked only once, his eyes seeming to meet both Vraelgar's and Lucien's at once, "the task before you concerns our sworn duty as Riders. We are protectors, scholars, peacekeepers and agents of justice. We owe allegiance to none but our own collective conscience, and operate with the support and respect of every nation in Alagaësia."

Eragon paused to allow the words to sink in, and sink in they did. Lucien fought the urge to hunch at the immensity of the responsibility that being a Rider entailed and the gravity of his position. He had always known it, but not until that moment had it truly struck him in full.

"Your task is one we have not given to a Rider in many decades," Eragon continued calmly, "and one that many would believe an Elder Rider alone suitable for. I, however, believe that it is time we began grooming the next generation of leaders in truth." Another long pause, as the Grand Master observed Lucien's reaction, before proceeding. "Word has reached us via Du Weldenvarden of a possible new threat to Alagaësia, a stirring of something that could prove harmful to the peace of the realm."

Lucien's heart leapt into his throat as he listened, and beside him, he felt Vraelgar go very still from shock and anticipatory excitement.

"We are sending you as our representative to the people of Alagaësia, to assess the danger of this new threat and – if necessary – eliminate it before it has a chance to fracture the budding prosperity of the world."

For several heartbeats, Lucien was speechless, but he bowed quickly and lowly, unable to believe his ears. "You honour us, Ebrithil."

"It is good you understand the responsibility we are placing upon you, Lucien-finiarel. However, you shall not be going alone. You will be accompanied on this journey, to sate the worries of those on the council who doubt your safety. I do agree it would be a shame to lose you."

Lucien blinked. _I wonder who they're sending with us?_

_ Perhaps Sariphus and Molterion?_ Replied Vraelgar, equally curious.

"For that reason," said Eragon, unaware of the silent communication, "we are sending the person we believe you will work best with." Looking up, he lifted his hand, "come."

Turning, Lucien peered at the entrance to the council chambers, and his eyes widened. There, striding in with her amethyst-coloured Dragon, Lethyria, in tow; was Visenya. Eyes following her until she was standing beside him, Lucien couldn't help but smile when she gave him a broad grin. Of course she'd be pleased to be going on a potentially lethal mission back to the very land that the Riders had left to its own devices for the better part of seventy years.

"Finally, in order to ensure no expense is spared to see you succeed," Eragon said with a faint smile, "we have organized for you to receive weapons worthy of your status as Riders. It took some… creative coaxing… but we have managed to acquire the services of she who forged my blade, and all riders' blades before."

Turning to a distant door at the far end of the chamber's interior, Lucien, Visenya, Eragon and the entire council – as well as the Dragons – observed the arrival of none other than Rhunön herself; resplendent in simple linens, and wearing her most intimidating scowl. "I take it these are the miscreants you twisted my arm into crafting for, Shadeslayer?"

Bowing his head, lips faintly quirked into a smile, Eragon nodded, "yes, Rhunön-elda. May I introduce Lucien and Visenya, and their dragons, Vraelgar and Lethyria."

Twisting their rests in the gesture of elven respect, both riders bowed, as did their dragons. For her part, Rhunön merely fixed them with a critical stare, before grunting. "Well, let's get on with it. I'm told you need to be in flight within the week, and I'll be damned if you won't have the finest blades at your sides when you are."

Blinking, Lucien and Visenya glanced at each other, then looked to Eragon. Smiling, the Grand Master nodded, "go with our blessings, Lucien, Visenya, Vraelgar and Lethyria. We shall see you on the eve of your departure."

Bowing, the two junior riders hesitated, before glancing at Rhunön, who tapped her foot impatiently, raising a silvered brow at them. Choosing the safe option, they hurried towards her, and fell in with her as she turned away, leading them off and out of the council chambers.

_I shall see you at the forge. Lethyria and I will be waiting there._

_See you there, then._ Lucien replied simply, before settling his mind to the task approaching. At his side, Visenya positively glowed with excitement, and he couldn't help but share some of it. They were going to receive blades from Rhunön. They were going to travel to Alagaësia on behalf of the Order.

They were going to be Riders in truth.

Nothing would ever be the same.


	3. Chapter 2: Of Heroes and Swords

Before you proceed to read the next Chapter, I just wanted to take a moment to thank those of you that have been following this story, and express what it means to me that fellow fans have had such an overwhelming positive reaction. I titled the story 'Legacy' both because of plot allusion, and because it is Mr. Paolini's own legacy I am attempting to do justice to. I write each Chapter over the course of two or three sittings, with several thousand words written at a time. I'm also pretty bad when it comes to proof-reading, so forgive me if there are any odd typos. As far as story goes, I do indeed have everything planned out, and I think that everyone will be happy with what happens as things progress. Please keep the reviews coming, as they are a great encouragement for me to continue, as well as my motivation to push myself the way I do. I am glad you are all enjoying Lucien, and I hope you continue to enjoy him in the Chapters to come. As for those of you wondering about Angela's gift, well, I can tell you that it will be extremely important later on, but not how or why. You'll just have to wait and see! Anyway, that's all from me. If you wish to speak to me more, you contact me on skype under the handle 'Pyrosweaver' or email me at braddletard . Enjoy Chapter Two, and as always...

May good fortune rule over you.

Peace live in your heart.

And the stars watch over you.

* * *

Chapter Two: Of Heroes and Swords

Rhunön led Lucien and Visenya with the staunch, uncompromising determination that seemed to define everything about her. When faced with an offense such as a closed door, or a small group of Apprentice Riders waiting to meet with one of the elders, she fixed such a stare upon the item that earned her ire that it seemed as if the sheer power of her wrath would remove the obstacle.

In the case of apprentices, it worked without fail.

During the course of their journey down from the top of Shadeslayer Hall, Rhunön had taken it upon herself to grill Lucien and Visenya on everything they knew of both swordplay and craftsmanship. Visenya, who was raised in the lap of luxury, had about as much practical knowledge of working a forge as a Dragon did of being a vegetarian.

Lucien, on the other hand, was quite a different story. Having been brought up working plying the trade of a blacksmith until his sixteenth nameday, when Vraelgar had hatched for him, he had extensive – for a man his age – knowledge of the operation of a smithy, and how to forge steel. Thanks to his bond to Vraelgar, he now also had a very strong constitution and enough stamina to forge in the same manner that Rhunön herself did.

"Are you left-handed or right-handed, boy?"

"Right handed."

"Sword-and-Shield or Greatsword?"

"Hand-and-a-Half, Rhunön-elda."

"This brings back memories…" Muttered the older elf following the statement; a reaction that both Visenya and Lucien shared bewildered glances over, but were wise enough not to pursue an explanation for. On and on she questioned them, sometimes lapsing into thoughtful silence following an answer, before abruptly springing yet another demand for information on them. When Visenya declared that she preferred fighting with two hands, and disparaged shields, Rhunön did not even bat an eyelash, as if she had expected that very answer.

Following their departure from the Hall, and subsequent journey out on the colonnaded marble walkway leading away from the massive building, Rhunön took an abrupt left at the first crossroads, confusing Lucien and Visenya, who hurried to follow. It was Visenya who pointed out the error, a palpable note of confusion entering her voice, "forgive me, Rhunön-elda, but the forge is the other way."

"Aye," she said with a stout nod, "the forge _your_ lot uses. I intend to make use of the best tools and smithy available, and no forge can match a Dwarf's for quality."

"Is… is that _allowed_?" Lucien asked without thinking, voice choked with shock.

By way of answer, Rhunön simply shot a glance over her shoulder, within which was held a very clear message: what Rhunön wanted, Rhunön received, and woe to anyone who stood in her way.

Glancing at each other again, Lucien and Visenya slipped into the same mindset as if they were riding a storm. There was no way to control it, all you could do was hold on and pray to whatever powers there were that you ended up healthy enough to function following its fury.

The smithy Rhunön intended to commandeer loomed before them after another winding turn along the pathway, a two-story building of impressive size, currently devoid of life within. The personal forge of both Dwarven elders, the interior held every tool imaginable. When Lucien and Visenya peered inside, following Rhunön's brusque entry, they were rendered speechless.

Armour and weaponry were on display in every free location, abstract works of metallic art and experimental blends of different metals placed upon labelled pedestals for all to see. The forge itself was huge, easily big enough inside to fit three large families and their pet dogs. Multiple anvils of different size and density were in attendance, as well as an entire wall of nothing but hammers and tongs. Aprons large enough for humans, elves and even Urgals hung on specially forged hooks, and statues to dwarven gods were mounted over the four cardinal entrances.

Nodding in satisfaction, Rhunön grabbed one of the aprons, and then carelessly pulled two steel pokers from a barrel containing dozens, tossing one to each Visenya and Lucien. Upon receiving their puzzled glances, she snorted and spoke in her usual blunt, demanding manner. "Fight. I need to see how you use your weapons."

Blinking, the two young Riders levelled one last curious look at the elven ancient, before turning to one another and raising the pokers in the traditional salute. Barely a heartbeat passed following, and Visenya was on the offensive, stepping off her right foot with a shout and striking out at Lucien sharply. Caught off guard, he lost ground quickly before he managed to recover, cursing his lack of alertness and resolving to remedy it. Determination replaced annoyance a moment later, and then the battle truly began – both of them exchanging blows with rapid strokes of their pseudo-blades.

The whole while, Rhunön watched with hawkish intensity, stepping this way and that to gain different angles on their battle. Some murmurs of measurement and statements of dimension passed from her lips, but she otherwise remained silent. Content to watch, Rhunön leaned against one of the anvils, eyes darting between each combatant with equal analytical interest.

About ten minutes into their duel, with several small cuts present on Lucien's tunic and leggings, and perhaps a third as many on Visenya, Vraelgar and Lethyria touched down outside – seemingly drawn by the evident exertion their riders were undergoing.

Neither Dragon remarked on the exchange, and without need for interruption, both riders continued to exchange blows, flowing back and forth in a bloody dance for supremacy until, nigh thirty minutes after the bout began, and after both of them were heaving for air and drenched in sweat, Rhunön called for them to stop.

Wordlessly, Lucien and Visenya saluted, and went to drop their pokers back, still breathing heavily from their impromptu exercise. For his part, Lucien was glad to be finished, though he'd never let Visenya know it. He was by no means out of shape; if anything, he was as near to physical perfection as a man his age could be – but there was something unrelenting about his female companion that drained him.

Peering at her then, even as he noticed Rhunön begin gathering tools and materials, Lucien couldn't help but be drawn to the elegant contours of her face, the faint sheen of perspiration on her cheeks and forehead, and the rosy flush infusing her flesh from the heat the exertion had caused her. Visenya was, in a word, stunning. He'd noticed it the first time they'd met, years ago, when she was still a fiery-eyed, albeit over-proud daughter of Nobility who expected to be treated as her station demanded.

The first few week of their companionship had been the most trying, with Visenya coming to realize the reality of her utter unimportance – in the grand scheme of the Order – with stubbornly slow progress. When at last she had resigned herself to the fact that she was, for better or for worse, just like every other Apprentice – their friendship had truly begun. Despite being peers and friends since that point, nigh on four and a half years prior, there had never been a moment of anything beyond a firmly platonic relationship.

_Well, aside from her damned smiles._ Lucien thought ruefully, a little smile of his own curling his lips up at the corners. The first time she had realized how her near-suggestive smiles affected him, Visenya had turned them into a vicious weapon, releasing it only sparingly so as to preserve its power, but doing so at the most inopportune moments.

Once, she had used it to his advantage, distracting one of his appointments just long enough for his practice blade to crack the other boy in the temple. He had been so pleased with the victory at the time, that he had never questioned the wonderment that had dawned on the other Apprentice's wide features, until he'd heard the fellow boasting about how he would 'conquer' Visenya within the week.

She had sent him back to his barracks with a dislocated jaw, and four broken fingers, the moment he'd tried to make good on the boast.

"Is there a reason you're trying to frown a hole through me?"

Visenya's voice snapped Lucien out of his reverie, sending him into a series of rapid blinks to remember where he was.

"Oh, no. Sorry. My mind was elsewhere." He replied with a placating smile.

"Uh-huh," she said with a raised eyebrow, before shaking her head, "well refocus it on the here and now. Rhunön-elda is about to begin, and I don't know about you, but I'd rather not miss the crafting of my own blade. These swords will be with us for the rest of our lives, we need to make sure they're perfect."

"Is that doubt I hear?" Cut in Rhunön herself, severe eyes levelled on the pair of them.

Lucien and Visenya shook their heads quickly, "no, Rhunön-elda; just idle talk amongst ourselves. We're a little nervous, you see. We've never worked with Brightsteel."

Looking to Visenya, Lucien raised his eyebrows. The 'we' in that sentence was so hilariously out of place, he nearly burst into laughter on the spot. The day Visenya picked up a blacksmith's hammer was the day he became Grand Master of the Riders.

"You think you'll be forging your own blades?" Rhunön asked incredulously, both silver brows shooting up into her fringe. "What gave you that ridiculous notion?"

"Well, we all heard about your oath to never—"

"Who do you think made the blades for all the new riders?"

"But—"

"Eragon released me from my oath decades ago, girl. I've been making these blades again for nearly fifty-five years."

"I—I see. I apologize, Rhunön-elda."

Grunting in acknowledgement, Rhunön turned back to her preparations, gesturing idly, "go wait outside with your Dragons," she said dismissively. "I need solitude, time and silence to ply my craft."

"Yes, Rhunön-elda." Lucien replied for both of them, steering the still open-mouthed Visenya away from the ancient before she decided to take offense to her staring. Outside, Vraelgar and Lethyria had settled themselves with comfort onto the large section of grass near to the smithy, stretched out beside each other, as if readying to wait for the entire process.

Shaking his head, Lucien released the elbow he'd used to guide Visenya, and smiled at her wryly, "you had to go and open your mouth."

"There was no way I could know she—!"

"Visenya, I'm not blaming you, but you do need to learn some tact."

"Tact?! I was raised in the heart of nobility! I have more tact in one fingernail than you do in your entire stupid body, Lucien!"

Immune to her tantrums, Lucien just laughed quietly, moving to place a hand on Lethyria's snout, smiling at the large amethyst eye that swivelled to him. _Hello, Lethyria. You look lovely as always._

_ Hello, Lucien-Visenya's-Friend. You seem to have demonstrated the same incomprehensible knack for driving my rider into a fury._

Lucien laughed; _I fear she makes it too easy for me._

Lethyria snorted a cloud of smoke, her lips peeling back slightly in a dragon's version of a grin, _yes, that she does._

Behind him, Lucien felt Vraelgar flare with amusement, clearly having spoken to Lethyria about something similar earlier. Removing his hand from the purple dragon's scales, Lucien stepped over and settled onto the grass next to Vraelgar's left foreleg, leaning back against it and closing his eyes.

Nearby, he heard Visenya muttering darkly to herself, then the faint thud of her flouncing onto the ground next to Lethyria. Smaller than Vraelgar by a noticeable degree, Lethyria was regardless one of the fastest dragons in Illaria, her aptitude for flying and speed over distance matched by few, if any, of the other Dragons. Conversely, Vraelgar was far thicker and stronger – able to endure for longer, but unable to even begin to match Lethyria's top speed.

It was a difference that meant little, considering their likeness in age. Barely months separated them from their dates of hatching, and though Vraelgar was older, the two interacted as if they had been in the same Thunder since birth. In truth, they more or less had, considering the manner in which new dragons were sorted together for training.

The difference, of course, was that whereas Visenya and Lucien had a mildly antagonistic companionship, Vraelgar and Lethyria was more friendly competition – a mutual desire to push each other to do better, to be better. It was massively beneficial, not only to the dragons, but to their riders as well. That kind of joint push could make the dragons that much more valuable to the Order, though Lucien and Visenya would have loved them all the same, regardless of their unique strengths.

Time passed slowly for the waiting riders, powerless to do anything to hurry Rhunön and incapable of offering assistance, they were relegated to a glorified audience, seated on the grass outside the forge. When four Elders approached about two hours into the work, while Lucien and Visenya were idly playing a game of riddles, the pair scrambled to their feet in expectation. However, instead of speaking to them, the two dwarves, human and elf walked into the smithy.

Dejected, the pair sunk back into the grass, returning to their game. The most excitement they'd had, and it wasn't even true excitement. It was foolish to wish for something dramatic to happen, but they wished for it nonetheless. Lucien, for his part, contented himself with fantasies of heroism and the amount of screaming fans he could expect to clamour around him in Alagaësia.

"It's going to be wonderful to see Ilirea for the first time," Lucien said out loud, looking across to Visenya, breaking the silence that followed in the wake of their last shared riddle.

"You've never seen Ilirea?" She asked in surprise, seemingly glad for something to speak about.

"No, I've barely seen any of Alagaësia. Illaria is the first city I've been to."

Visenya's lavender eyes widened; and she brushed some golden hair behind her ear unconsciously, dumb-founded. "I can't believe you never told me that!"

"You never really asked, Visenya."

"That's not the point! You've missed _so much_ of the world. Oh gods, and you're going to have to learn how to behave in proper society, too."

"The Order _did_ give us ambassadorial training, remember."

She waved a hand testily, "don't be so rural, Lucien. That's not nearly the same thing."

Vermillion gaze flashing with amusement, he raised his eyebrows, entertained by her capricious flip to passion, "and how is that?"

"Ilirea is the _capital_ of The Kingdom. You can't just hope your charms will get you through it, you ignorant blacksmith!"

"You think I have charms?" He asked with a grin.

"Shut up!" She screeched, a flush suffusing her cheeks. "This is serious!"

Lucien fell backwards against Vraelgar's foreleg at her tone, laughing merrily at her evident frustration. "I'm sorry, truly, I'm sorry. It's just so _easy_ with you."

"Hmph!" She replied with a toss of her head, nose upturned and chin jutting out stubbornly. The picture of haughty nobility.

"Visenya," he said in a milder tone.

"What."

"Thank you for worrying about my well-being." His words were soft, but he had known from the beginning that was what she was doing. "I appreciate you caring enough to think of these things, and welcome your wisdom and knowledge in dealing with the Ilirean nobility." Many would consider Visenya harsh, but not Lucien. He knew she had a heart as gold as her hair.

"I… you're welcome, Lucien." She murmured back, sounding both pleasantly surprised and mollified.

"I am glad to see you two are truly friends," a new voice said warmly, startling Lucien and Visenya, as well as the Dragons. The initial reaction was to regard anyone who could sneak up on them as a threat, and rumble threateningly. Yet, when the group collectively recognized the voice, the rumbling ceased, and in its place came awed silence.

Eragon appeared before them seemingly out of nothingness, a faint smile on his handsome features and a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. "I worried that we had paired you two together in error, but Sariphus seemed so sure, and I was inclined to trust him. It seems I was right to do so."

Still stunned beyond words, the sitting pair nodded, unaware of their mouths hanging open in persistent shock. Eragon! The Grand Master! The Savior of Alagaësia! Lucien felt his heart leap into his throat, and when he attempted to speak, he could only release a strangled sort of croak. Beside him, Visenya's lips moved soundlessly, but she too seemed incapable of speech.

Still smiling, though now it was a little sympathetic and wry, Eragon seated himself before them, seemingly impassive to their eyes bugging out as he did so. "I remember the first time I met Oromis," he said quietly, "when my ebrithil seemed so massive, I could never even hope to match his wisdom, his power. I was so in awe of him, I could barely find words."

The two of them shut their mouths with a click, and Lucien swallowed, managing a few hoarse words, "I think I understand the feeling well, Ebrithil."

Eragon laughed quietly, a mixture of human roughness and elven music, so warm it – against all reason – made Lucien feel somehow more relaxed. Even Vraelgar seemed to lose tension, his thought less tempestuous than they normally were. Nearby, he felt more than saw Visenya and Lethyria similarly relax. There was something incredibly compelling about Eragon, even sitting on the grass as he was.

"The task before you will not be easy and in truth, I worry there is something of truth in rumours of this presumed new threat." He seemed to consider his next words, as if careful not to intimidate them, "but if I did not think you capable of undertaking this mission, I would not have assigned you to it. I have faith in the both of you, but so too should you have faith in each other."

Peering at their Dragons, Eragon's smile widened, "I remember the last time I was alone with Saphira, coasting across the highlands and searching for suitable hunting grounds to sustain the newborn dragons." His eyes returned to Lucien and Visenya, "savour this time with your partners, all of you. It will be a rare and wondrous event, and I would not see you miss the chance to fully appreciate such a gift."

_We will, Ebrithil._ Came Vraelgar's reply, _and ensure that our riders do not get themselves killed._

_ Yes, _agreed Lethyria, _despite their best efforts to the contrary._

While both Dragons rumbled their amusement, Lucien and Visenya had very different reactions. For her part, the blond turned bright red and seemed absolutely mortified to be spoken of in such a manner, especially while in the presence of Eragon himself. Lucien, however, was far less concerned – laughing quietly and placing a hand back onto Vraelgar's snout affectionately, the dragon responding with a faint nudge.

"I am glad of your vigilance, apprentices." Eragon said with a nod to the Dragons, before looking back to the two humans. "I understand you may be getting impatient waiting here, but I urge you to master yourselves. Rhunön's craft takes time, but it is the greatest in the world. When she finishes your blades, you will never have to seek another in your lifetime."

"Ebrithil," said Visenya suddenly, "I have a question."

"Yes?"

"I've asked this prior, but Sariphus-elda has never seen fit to answer; how is it we came to have brightsteel? I thought it was all gone."

"About two years after I founded Illaria, and the first four Riders came to train with me, I realized that Rhunön's supply of the metal would run out quickly. Even precluding her oath, which I had already been working on removing, the lack of resources was alarming." Telling the tale made Eragon seem less… massive. Of course, he was still a mythical figure, but Lucien began, just slightly, to see the older man as a person, not just a representation of awe.

"Saphira and I flew far and wide, searching for a suitable replacement. These lands had never been explored, and we wondered if it wouldn't be possible to find some means of replicating, or at least finding a less lacking alternative, to brightsteel." Then he smiled, one of amusement and memory. "It was Saphira who ended up finding our quarry. A large cave, hidden behind a waterfall, set into one of the mountains that now serve as the homes for the wild dragons. When she entered, we discovered a huge, glittering ball of rock that served as the heart of the cave. It had fallen from the sky, and shaped the entire mountain around it."

Shaking his head, Eragon laughed, "I was so giddy with excitement; I scried my apprentices – all of them now Elders – and ordered them to meet me at the cave. Between the five of us and our dragons, we managed to excavate huge swathes of the rock and bring it with us. By time a week had passed, we'd filled our entire storehouse, and barely touched a fifth of the total mass of brightsteel."

Leaning back, the Grand Master scrubbed a hand through his hair, eyes taking on a distant look. "My greatest worry in those days was the future of the order's weapons. Our blades had defined us, and it seemed wrong that we would not be able to give the new generation the same tools. Fortunately, fate was kind to us. We have enough brightsteel now to last us thousands of years, and if our order survives long enough to have to worry about a lack, then I will be glad for that survival alone."

"Do you think the Order will survive ebrithil?" Asked Lucien in a quiet tone, "what if we have another Wyrdfell? The power of a rider can be very tempting for misuse, and if we fell once…"

"I understand your fears, Lucien-finiarel, and it is good that you have them. It's important to learn from the past." Eragon paused, considering his answer before replying. "But I don't believe we need to be too concerned. While the council is not blind to the possibility, we are also more confident in our own fallibility, now. The mistake of the previous order, I think, was a lack of contention. The Riders never had to deal with the possibility of betrayal. Now, we look for it."

"In some ways, one could argue that we've lost something in the birth of that suspicion, but I feel it a necessary evil. The world needs the riders, not just for its own sake, but for the sake of justice, of peace and prosperity. Kings, Queens, Emperors and Empires all come and go – but we, we'll be eternal. We'll be there, from now until, I hope, the very end of days. For so long as there is but a single dragon, and a rider worthy of its allegiance, there is a future."

Reassured, Lucien touched his hand to his heart, "thank you, Ebrithil."

"You are most welcome, Lucien."

Breaking her silence, Visenya spoke up, a little bit of a hitch in her voice revealing her nervousness, "Ebrithil, forgive me, but what happens if we're not greeted warmly by the people of Ilirea?"

Eragon raised his eyebrows, regarding Visenya with a surprised look, "what do you mean, Visenya?"

"Well… I grew up in Ilirea, you see, and I remember a large amount of my upbringing. The Riders never featured very dominantly, if at all. In fact, there was almost a level of contempt for them, because of how distant we've been from Alagaësia as a whole." By this point, Visenya's voice had strengthened, though she was still clearly nervous. "Some people feel as if you – that is to say, we – abandoned them when you… we… er…" She floundered then, unable to maintain her train of thought.

"You mean when I chose to leave Alagaësia." Eragon supplied gently.

"Y–yes, Ebrithil."

"That, I'm afraid, is something that will have to be dealt with if it comes up. The most I can promise is that King Ajihad will greet you warmly, but I cannot speak for his court, or the people of Alagaësia as a whole. My only advice is to remember your training, and avoid being drawn into unneeded conflict. The last thing we want is a Dragon ripping apart a palace."

_They should be so lucky, to see us demonstrate such might._

_ Yes, they should consider themselves gifted to witness our fury._

Looking to Lethyria, then Vraelgar, Eragon laughed. "You both remind me fiercely of Saphira when she was still learning from Glaedr, always insisting on how others should feel privileged to be hunted by dragons."

Not seeing the humour, Visenya turned very pale, and Lucien hesitated a moment before reaching out and placing a hand on hers. "It'll be fine," he said softly. "Your parents will be proud."

Startled, she stared at him, "how did you…?"

A shrug was his only answer, and she responded with a grateful smile.

"I will leave you both to your waiting," Eragon said quietly, breaking them out of their mutual staring. "Some of the kitchen staff will be by with meals for you at each appropriate time of the day. I would tell you to return to your quarters, but I doubt it would be doing you any favours. Try to get as much rest as you can, however. You'll depart as soon as you have your blades. We cannot afford too much of a delay." Rising, he smiled to them, and they stood as well, bowing respectfully.

"Thank you for sharing your wisdom, Ebrithil." Lucien said earnestly, "It has given use much to consider."

"Yes," Visenya agreed, "thank you for your time."

"Be well, Riders." Was all he said, before turning and striding away along the green, his blue cloak billowing out behind him like a sapphire river.

Settling back onto the grass, Lucien spoke immediately, "don't worry about Ilirea. We're riders, Visenya. They won't dare ignore us, not if we represent the entire Order."

"I'm not worried about that, so much as I am about what else they might do. The politics involved are incredibly convoluted. I wouldn't be surprised if some idiot from one of the larger Houses tried to assassinate us in some mistaken display of bravado."

Behind them, the Dragons growled angrily, Vraelgar speaking first, his musical baritone rippling with defensive rage. _I will tear apart any such foolish individual limb by limb, and mount their head on my lowest tail spike._

"They wouldn't be worthy of such an honour, Vraelgar." Said Lucien with a faint smile.

_Peace, Vraelgar. It won't come to that. Our Riders are very skilled with their blades. Besides, I'll just eat anyone who attempts harm._

Visenya scrunched her features in a mind-defyingly cute manner, glancing back at Lethyria with a giggle, "they would taste awful."

_I never said I would swallow them._ Replied the Dragon with a flash of her long, razored white teeth, sending both Lucien and Visenya into a fit of partially horrified laughter.

"Let's try to get some meditation in," said Lucien after a few moments, "it'll help pass the time while we wait."

"That sounds good," said with Visenya with a nod, settling back against Lethyria and closing her eyes. After a few moments, her breathing slowed, and she fell into a deep trance. Shaking his head, Lucien watched her with wonder. He still had no idea how she did it so easily. For his part, he shifted to get comfortable before propping himself into crook of Vraelgar's left foreleg, folding his arms and curling himself up for comfort.

The black dragon's massive wing descended to block the sun, and Lucien murmured his thanks, slowing his breathing and focusing on calming his thoughts. The meeting with Eragon had excited him greatly, but he knew he would regret not meditating. After some repeated relaxation exercises, he felt himself slowing his thoughts, and allowed his mind to melt into Vraelgar's, submersing himself into deep meditation.

Hours passed in this manner, with the pair of them rising from their meditation only to eat, converse for a time afterwards, and then sink into a light sleep as night once again took hold of Illaria. Free from their duties due to the impending departure, they slept long into the night, and awoke early the next morning. A quick check-in with Rhunön, and a hurried breakfast, then they mutually departed to their quarters for bathing and a change of clothes, while the Dragons went to hunt. By midday, they were back in the field, sometimes practicing swordplay, exchanging riddles or testing each other's knowledge of the Ancient Language.

Two more days they passed in this manner, consistently pushing themselves harder and harder to improve as much as they could prior to their leaving, until Rhunön finally summoned them on the afternoon of the fourth day, her face weary and eyes dark with lack of sleep. Still, there was pride on her ancient features, and she appeared to be happier and more content than they had seen in their relatively short time with the elven elder.

"I have done it," Rhunön announced simply, showing them two carefully covered, long objects wrapped in velvet cloth. "Two blades, as fine as I have ever made, forged to make you Riders in truth." Smiling eagerly at one another, they reached out towards the weapons, before hesitating. "You first," said Lucien with a nod, "go on."

Reassured, and thankful that they could appreciate each other's blades individually, Visenya removed the cloth covering her sword, and her eyes widened in amazement. The blade was long, a good five feet in length, the edging a faint lavender – the same colour of her eyes – whilst towards the middle of the blade, it held a clear amethyst hue, perfectly resembling Lethyria's snout scales. The cross-guard was elegantly crafted in gold, stylized with leaves and vines, while the hilt was wrapped with dyed purple leather. The pommel was a triumvirate of golden leaves, housing a beautiful Amethyst in truth.

"It's perfect," Visenya said in awe, testing the blade with several elegant, two-handed swings. "Rhunön-elda, I have no words. This blade is perfection." Nodding, as if she expected nothing less, Rhunön held out her hand and – regretfully – Visenya handed it back. "Now give me a name, child. I must inscribe it quickly."

Blinking, Visenya glanced sidelong at Lucien, before smiling quietly and nodding to herself. "Victory." She said simply, "because I will lose the day I die." Rhunön nodded again, and inscribed the rune with a few uttered words, handing the blade and its massive sheathe to Visenya a moment later, after repeating the process on the latter. "May it serve you well, Shur'tugal."

Smiling, Visenya cradled the massive blade like a newborn, and jerked her chin at Lucien, eyes curious. Needing no further encouragement, he stepped forwards and lifted his own blade, took a breath and removed the cloth. What greeted his eyes stole his breath. Even Visenya's eyes widened.

The blade itself was four feet long, ideal for two-handed and one-handed combat. Where Visenya's was wider, his was narrowed, forged for speed and accuracy as opposed to sheer power. The blade itself was stunning, a light, red-as-his-eyes colouring to the edges of the steel, while black the colour of polished obsidian dominated the inside of the blade. Along its centre, all the way to the tip, ran a blood red line the colour of Vraelgar's eyes, splitting the black neatly at the exact middle.

The cross guard was silver in colour, and more intimidating – almost – than the blade itself. Jagged spikes and artistically woven tongues of platinum flame curled in frozen imagery around the blade's base, while red-dyed leather wrapped the hand-and-a-half hilt. Beneath it, at the bottom, sat a gem socket in the shape of a silver flame – and within, a molten red ruby sat in glory, reflecting the light of the forge's flames.

Without even being prompted, Lucien whispered the blade's name, as if it had been in his mind and simply waited for the opportune moment to make it known, "Absolution." Not taking the sword from him, Rhunön murmured the necessary words to inscribe the blade with the naming runes, repeating the process on the sheath; a black affair woven with jagged red lines of artistic flame.

"Rhunön-elda, I…"

"I know what the others say of you, Lucien Williamsson." Replied Rhunön with shocking softness, "and I gift this blade to thee, that you may redeem the name of Shruikan, and all black dragons who come after you."

Blinking a faint mist of tears from the corners of his eyes, Lucien bowed low, twisting his wrist over his breast. "I am speechless before your kindness," he said hoarsely, heart racing. In response, Rhunön lifted his chin, flouting tradition spectacularly. "Do us proud, Shur'tugal."

An hour later, after the Dragons had expressed their extreme approval of the blades – Vraelgar going so far as to approach Rhunön and touch her on the forehead in gratitude, something she was visibly warmed by – and their sheathes, Riders and Dragons departed from outside the forge to finalize the preparations for their journey. Lucien packed every piece of clothing he owned, his razors, some medicinal herbs, food and necessary supplies.

One last look was given around the room that had been his home for years, before he exhaled and mounted Vraelgar again, his mood sombre. _Nothing is going to be the same after today._

_ Is that such a bad thing?_

_ No, Vraelgar. But it is still a sad thought, irrelevant of its positive connotations._

_ Yes… I suppose you are right._

In silence they flew, speaking only to confirm that it was in fact Eragon and Sariphus who awaited them inside the council chambers, and that Visenya had already arrived. Walking in with Vraelgar following, Lucien bowed to the two riders and nodded to Visenya, who was garbed in her finest purple-and-gold tunic and breeches, with polished black riding boots.

Lucien, conversely, wore his usual black-and-red attire, while Sariphus was in his robes and Eragon sported a set of enchanted silver armour, a flowing blue cloak and Brisingr at his side. "Are you both prepared?" He asked calmly, looking between them both.

"Yes, Ebrithil." They answered as one, expressions hardened into determination.

"Lucien and I have enough provisions, medicine and supplies to last us two full trips."

"Good," said Sariphus in approval. "In a normal circumstance, it would take you over two weeks to reach Ilirea, however, the council has agreed that haste is important and as such, has consented to assist your journey."

Nodding, Eragon took up where Sariphus left off, "we will be joining our powers with those of every magician, rider and apprentice in Illaria. Together, we will work upon the wind to raise it in your aid. We estimate that the air should propel you fast enough to reach Carvahall in four days. From there, it should take you no more than three days to reach Ilirea. A little over a week's travel, perhaps more if our estimates are off."

"Are we to fly non-stop, ebrithil?"

"Yes, but we have packed heavily infused gemstones in your saddlebags to assist in the flight. You should be able to use them to maintain the strength of your Dragons until you reach Carvahall, and only need a day of rest before flying on."

"if I may, Ebrithil," said Visenya respectfully, "why Carvahall? Why not Du Weldenvarden?"

"Because of the wards," supplied Sariphus, "and because Carvahall is a great ally of the Riders. It will be the safest place, outside of Ellesméra, to take your rest. We wish you at full strength, and unburdened by weariness, when you meet with King Ajihad. We also advise you wear your armour – it has been… altered… to better befit your station. You will see what is meant in due course."

Nodding, the pair glanced to Eragon, waiting to see if he had anything to add. After a moment, he smiled and said, "if you see my cousin Roran Stronghammer, please give him my regards, and to my niece Ismira." Nodding again, in Lucien's case with a faint smile of understanding, the pair turned and hurried away, looking back only to wave once more, a gesture that both older riders returned, before they mounted their Dragons.

"Shall we?" Lucien called over to Visenya.

"Let's," she said with a nod, gripping the lavender spike in front of her.

Spreading their wings, Vraelgar and Lethyria leapt off the platform with a running leap, flapping hard to gain altitude. As they did, a gargantuan blue figure came into view below, stepping out from within Shadeslayer hall. Raising her maw to the heavens, Saphira roared a thunderous, triumphant farewell. After a moment, the call was taken up by the myriad of glittering figures throughout the city, the Dragons uniting in a stunning chorus of raw, primal power.

In response, Vraelgar and Lethyria joined their roars to that of their kin, and Lucien and Visenya raised their right arms in the traditional farewell. Illaria trembled with the force of the chorus, and when the roars faded, it seemed as if the world suddenly became quieter than the grave.

Turning their eyes north, the pair of riders and their dragons fixed themselves to the task at hand, and departed Illaria for the first time in truth since their arrival, winging their way towards the lands that the Order had left so long ago.

As they flew, the wind rose around them, and they felt their velocity increase – carried forth upon the magic of their Order, and the hopes of the world.


End file.
